


Schrödinger's Cat

by aeslis



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Future Fic, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Past Otabek/OC, Post-Canon, for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeslis/pseuds/aeslis
Summary: Yuri shows up on Otabek's doorstep. Otabek can handle it. Really, he can.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	1. The Door Opened

**Author's Note:**

> This is... partially written! In progress! There's more to do! But I'm excited about it and if I start putting it out in the world, I'm hopeful it will propel me through the rest.
> 
> Big thanks to [Robbie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobbem), my muse, without whom I would not have written any of this at all. Also to [Elfie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfiepike) and [Fai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustfai) for poking at all my commas and hyphens.
> 
> Rating will potentially go up later (um it's very likely) and tags will probably be added (I'm bad at tags, tell me what to tag this).

Otabek's apartment in Almaty is not terribly large, but it doesn't need to be since it's only for one person. His family is less than an hour's drive across town and the apartment is located conveniently a Metro stop away from his rink just in case he doesn't want to drive, which he often doesn't (even though people stop him for autographs from time to time). He has a bedroom and a living room and a kitchen, neighbors he rarely hears, and a beautiful view off the balcony of the southern mountains. 

His bathroom was another draw. There's a large enough tub that he can mostly submerge himself, and the shower-head is a new fixture that detaches from the wall and has a massage function. The whole room is decorated with fancy, artistic tile, and there are two sinks. He pushes back his hair, studying his face in the mirror as he brushes his teeth.

When he's done he drops his toothbrush into its holder, next to a second, fiery red one that isn't his. He tries not to think about how much he likes it there.

The sound of the television is a quiet murmur down the hall. Otabek detours from his intended path to his bedroom, drawn down the hallway to the living room, where the lure of the television and the person watching it is too much to ignore. He doesn't say anything. He stops, leans against the wall, and looks.

Yuri stands in front of the sofa, hands on his hips, feet square to the floor, hair up in a messy bun that Otabek watched him spend way too much time on. He stares at the tv, his body turned away from where Otabek watches. Otabek's view is of the long line of Yuri's neck and the set of his shoulders, which are broader now than all those years ago when Otabek first caught up to him in Barcelona--but not by much, and that hasn't stopped Yuri from looking like he's made of porcelain.

There's a blanket on the sofa, and a pillow. Yuri's suitcase, spilling over with clothes that he tosses onto it instead of folding away neatly, is shoved against the wall.

It's been three days, and he still doesn't know why Yuri is here. The only forewarning he'd gotten was a text: Open your door, and a sharp, unapologetic knock five seconds later. Otabek had opened the door with some bemusement to find Yuri, his face set and stubborn. 

"Can I stay here?" he asked, like he thought Otabek could possibly say no.

Since then, Yuri has made himself aggressively at home. He lounges indolently on the couch and spits poison at the tv loud enough to be heard from everywhere in the apartment. He's eaten all of Otabek's yogurt and filled Otabek's bathroom with hair products and even a hair dryer when all Otabek owned was a comb and some gel.

It should irritate Otabek; he's never been good with people pushing close into his private life, and the apartment, perfect for one, is crowded with two. But it doesn't. It's easy in a way that's dangerous and makes his blood warm.

The light in the living room is poor. In fact, no lights are on at all. Only the flickering brightness of the black-and-white program on the tv, an old-fashioned one that Otabek doesn't recognize, casts a strange glow into the room, chasing at shadows but unable to banish them. Yuri, covered with it, seems even more unearthly than he already is. Sometimes, Otabek thinks he's like lightning taken form, or the electric shock of static that you don't anticipate. Other times he's the sharp cut of glass and the glare of the summer sun on closed eyelids. But right now he's pale and ghostly, like he's about to disappear, standing in Otabek's living room wrapped in shadows and slithering gray light.

"Creep," Yuri says, and the sudden normalcy of his voice over the murmuring television makes Otabek startle. Yuri turns his head, unerringly finding Otabek, and half his face falls into shadow. His eyes shine with tv light. His expression is half fond, half guarded. It's better, Otabek thinks, than the subtle undercurrent of pain that's haunted his face in between bouts of bristling anger, which has been the way of things since his arrival. "It's late. You should be sleeping."

"So should you," Otabek says, quite reasonably in his opinion. Yuri is three hours behind him still, not used to the time here in Almaty and probably not sleepy at all, so he's been staying up later than Otabek these last two nights, scrolling through Instagram when Otabek closes his bedroom door. He doesn't know when Yuri finally turns off his phone and closes his eyes.

Yuri's gaze narrows, and Otabek readies himself for another spark of anger. A tendril of hair that's fallen loose from Yuri's bun drifts against his cheek. Yuri is a study of contrasts like this: soft, but razor-edged. Always a moment away from bursting into flames.

But then Yuri lets out a breath, and his hands drop from his waist. He finds the remote and turns off the television, plunging the room into a deep dark. The afterimage of the screen is seared into the backs of Otabek's eyelids. He blinks, and it wavers.

Instead of the rustle of bedclothes being pulled back on the sofa, he hears footsteps, Yuri's socked feet shushing against Otabek's fuzzy carpet. He feels more than sees Yuri come to stand in front of him. "I'm going to sleep with you," Yuri says, his words sharp, prepared to fight for it.

"Okay," Otabek says much more calmly than he feels. But Yuri can't hear his heady pulse, so it's fine.

There's a pause. He wishes he could see Yuri's face right now. Otabek hears a small hnf, and then feels Yuri brush by him. He follows, letting Yuri lead the way into his own bedroom, open the door to the tidy, small space. Too small, if Yuri intends to fit himself into it.

The light on Otabek's nightstand is on, giving the room a warm, intimate glow. Yuri is already stripping off his t-shirt, pulling it up the narrow length of his torso without looking back. It falls to the floor in a puddle. Otabek halts, waiting, as Yuri strips off his jeans next and then nearly pounces onto the bed in only a pair of leopard print underwear. He knows Yuri owns these. He's seen them before, he just never expected to see them in his own bed.

He steps around Yuri's clothes, letting them be. Yuri has already pushed himself toward the wall, burrowing under the covers, leaving room for Otabek on the other side, although he's stolen Otabek's favorite pillow to plump under his head. Otabek lets him have it. It's a small price to pay for Yuri's comfort, and not worth a fight. Otabek climbs into his side gingerly, tugging the sheets up, and rearranges the pillows to lean against. He keeps on his gym shorts, even though he usually takes them off. 

"I'm going to read," he tells Yuri's back.

"Knock yourself out." Yuri tugs out his hair tie, and a golden avalanche of hair falls across the pillow. Otabek can smell it: something floral and light. Yuri twists, handing the elastic to Otabek, who dutifully places it on his nightstand, ignoring the spark of warmth he feels at this sudden domesticity. That part isn't real, and he won't pretend it is. The world isn't only about what he wants, after all, and Otabek has learned too well that when you're chasing after dreams of gold, there is no room for anything else. The world is too big, and the distance too great.

But still, he likes having Yuri in his bed, even just like this: comfortably tucked around the light of his phone, the tap of his thumb against the screen quiet like a cat's paw. It doesn't have to mean anything.

Otabek opens his book and finds his place, his fingers ghosting over the page. For a while, he sinks into the words and lets himself stop thinking about the line of Yuri's pale shoulder beside him and his body disappearing beneath dark sheets.

Then Yuri scoffs, rolling onto his back and holding his phone over his face. "Katsudon and Viktor need to get a life."

Otabek thinks mildly that they actually have one, and a good one against all odds, but he only says, "Oh?" because he knows the direction this is going.

"They might as well be having their fiftieth fucking honeymoon." Yuri's mouth pulls into a sneer. "Every day there's more of this shit on my feed."

Yuri's not wrong. Otabek follows Viktor, too—it's a small skating world and the skaters who don't follow Nikiforov are few and far between, even now that he's retired, because it's not like he stopped being a legend—and lately they seem to be somewhere with a beach and a lot of sun that results in shirtless photos of Katsuki standing in the ocean shallows with a wide, endless sky as a backdrop. Otabek doesn't bother to read the captions anymore because any actual words are lodged between an excess of heart emoji. But it's cute. He admires the happiness they've carved for themselves.

"You could stop following them if it bothers you that much," he suggests.

"Ha!" Yuri is not amused. "How do you think that would go? Because I'll tell you: Viktor would flip." He glares at his phone, scrolling again. "I'd have to fend off all his texts and calls because he'd get all blubbery and hurt. _He_ shouldn't be offended, it's _me_ who has to look at them. Ugh, I want to bleach my eyeballs."

There is also this. Yuri's steadfast scorn for anything romantic. It doesn't stop at Viktor, although his relationship with Katsuki is the one that Yuri complains about the most; understandable, given Yuri's constant proximity to it. But Otabek has heard plenty about Mila and her flirtatious ways and, back when Georgi was at the rink, about his "dumb-ass insistence on tripping over his own two feet anytime he thinks he's in love." Yuri has opinions, and Otabek has heard them all. He knows precisely where Yuri stands when it comes to romance.

"Let me know if you can't find the bleach," Otabek tells him.

"Dick," Yuri mutters. "You know what I mean."

Otabek smiles and goes back to his book.

\--

Otabek is not surprised to discover that Yuri is much the same asleep as he is awake: he looks like an angel, but behaves like a devil. Otabek is woken no less than three times by some part of Yuri colliding with him. First a smack to his face thanks to a flailing hand, and later two separate kicks to the shins. The first time Otabek rouses gummily from sleep and blinks against the dark, nudging the hand out of his face before falling back into unconsciousness moments later. But the fourth time he wakes, Yuri has stolen all the blankets.

Not only has he stolen them, he's basically twirled himself into them. Otabek rouses slowly as goosebumps prickle over his skin, the situation slowly starting to make more sense as his brain catches up. He turns on the light, squinting against its offensive brightness.

Yuri's eyelids flutter, but otherwise he doesn't move. He looks startlingly innocent in sleep, his expression smoothed of all its normal vitriol, long blond lashes caressing his cheekbones, hand tucked by his face like a kitten's paw. Otabek lets himself stare, drinking in the dip of Yuri's jawbone, the soft curve of his mouth. Then he carefully, reverently brushes Yuri's bangs back from his brow.

"You drive me absolutely crazy," Otabek murmurs, meaning it in every way imaginable.

Since he's not going to be getting his blankets back, Otabek slides out of bed and digs around quietly for a sweatshirt. Then he heads to the living room to get Yuri's unused bedding from the sofa. Yuri, of course, has abducted the middle of the bed by the time he gets back. Otabek shakes his head, easing back into the sliver of space Yuri left on his side of the mattress; he could sleep elsewhere, but he's unwilling to see what happens when Yuri wakes up in the morning and realizes he's banished Otabek to the sofa.

Yuri stirs as the bed shifts again, muttering under his breath as he flops away from Otabek and curls into a small ball.

For a moment, Otabek let himself imagine the impossible: waking up to Yuri in his bed day after day, Yuri curled against him with intent, sleep-soft and willing. It would likely come with a lot of bruises, Otabek thinks wryly, remembering Yuri's well-placed kick to the shin.

Then he quietly puts his fantasy away and shuts it tight. Yuri is his friend, and that alone is precious. 

He turns out the light with a quiet _click_.


	2. Mocha Cat

Otabek would normally consider himself a morning person, but when his alarm goes off he's ready to take a page out of Yuri's book and hurl it across the room. He doesn't, but he definitely thinks about it.

Yuri groans, pulling a pillow over his head. "Fuck, Beka." His sleepy aggravation comes out muffled. He's still a sheet burrito.

"Sorry," Otabek says, rubbing a hand over his face as he drags himself upright and steps over Yuri's clothes, still on the floor. "Go back to sleep." It's not quite six. Pale light bleeds through his curtains as he dresses himself for his run. He closes the door quietly behind him.

It's rained overnight, leaving the sidewalks stained dark and the scent of ozone in the air. Gray cotton clouds have been ripped apart and sit close to the horizon, blocking out the endless white mountains while leaving the morning sky overhead a clear, weak periwinkle. Wide puddles reflect the shining glass of a dozen elegant skyscrapers, pristine in the uncertain morning sun. Otabek puts his earbuds in, bounces a little on each foot, stretches out his hamstrings, and then starts to run, easy and relaxed, skirting around both puddles and people.

His feet strike rhythmically against the ground. He focuses on the feel, and it helps to drive away thoughts of Yuri's naked skin against his sheets. The fresh morning air kisses his ears and nose, sinks into his lungs, and the tension of having Yuri so near starts to ebb. After a few blocks, he turns into his favorite park. At this hour, and with the wet aftermath of rain dripping from the trees, there are few people; only those who, like him, are dedicated to the routine of a morning run.

It takes him until his second time around the footpath before his mind wakes up enough that he can think through his day. It's Friday, he reminds himself. He has a gig he's been preparing for. He's begged off other engagements to keep Yuri company, but he can't cancel this one, and Yuri wouldn't want him to anyway. He keeps asking if Otabek has someplace he needs to be, probably suspicious that Otabek is doing exactly what he's been doing.

Maybe he should invite Yuri. He's old enough to get in now, and it would be a good distraction from whatever's going on.

As he passes the fountain, he sends up a cloud of flapping birds. Another runner heads his way. He recognizes her; he sees her nearly every morning as she pushes her sleek gray stroller. He's made it a game to wonder about her. He likes to do that: to wonder about the strange lives of people he doesn't know. Today, as they pass each other, Otabek darts a side glance into the stroller carriage. The visor is pulled down low, so all he sees is a bundle of soft white fabric. No baby. He never sees a baby.

He'll never talk to her, of course. He's not curious enough to start a conversation, or even to make eye contact on purpose. The only person he's ever wanted to approach, to know about for real, is Yuri.

He keeps running, enjoying the stretch of his lungs and his legs. For a very short time, he simply breathes.

\--

Otabek walks the distance back from the park and stops at his favorite coffee shop on the way home. Mostly it's his favorite because it's convenient, just near the entrance to the park, but also because it has a sort of old-fashioned charm to it. The furniture is dark-stained wood and the walls are decorated with tapestries, very different than the modernized, copy-paste interiors of every Starbucks in the world (which he can say with some authority, as he's been in a lot of different Starbucks in a lot of places in the world). There are private alcoves and planters filled with greenery. He comes here every so often when he needs to be out of his apartment but doesn't want to go too far, just for a change of scenery.

The employees know him. It's hard for him to keep his identity a secret in Kazakhstan, and he doesn't like to lie, anyway. They even have a framed, signed photograph of him on the wall, now. He usually tries not to look at it, even though he agreed to give it to them.

"How was your run?" asks the girl at the register. She's not wearing a nametag, and he forgets her name. But he likes her well enough, and she always remembers his order. She's pretty in a little sister kind of way, expressive and friendly without being flirty.

"Good," he says, and her smile widens. It never bothers her that he doesn't smile back, which is nice. "The usual, and also a cappuccino, please." He gets out his wallet.

She pauses, her eyes widening a fraction. Then her smile comes back and as she takes his money, she asks, "Date?"

The question confuses him. Does ordering two coffees mean a date? "It's for a friend," he explains.

"Okay," she says easily. But her eyes crinkle around the corners, amused, like maybe she doesn't believe him. "Coming right up."

Otabek lingers at the coffee bar, waiting as they pull shots for his order. It doesn't really matter if she believes him or not, he supposes. Yuri _is_ a friend. They've never been on a date. Who cares what other people think? She doesn't even know who he's buying it for anyway.

His eye catches on a pen tucked over the barista's ear, and suddenly, he has an idea. Yuri's going to kill him.

When the drinks are ready, he asks to borrow it.

\--

By the time Otabek gets home the sun peers curiously over the tops of the skyscrapers and the sidewalks have lost their puddles, but are still damp. All the sweat from his run has dried on his skin and in his hair, and he's itchy and eager for a shower. He shoulders his way through the door, then stops dead. Yuri is stretching against the wall, his leg up in a vertical split, his sweatpants drawn tight over his thighs, bare toes pointed to the ceiling, and he's casually focused on his phone, thumb scrolling and scrolling. All the peacefulness he earned from his run quietly explodes. He can only be grateful Yuri doesn't have the power to read minds.

"Hey," Yuri says, not bothering to look up. His nose is wrinkled, and Otabek can't help but think, _cute_. It's a very confusing mix of emotions, but he's used to it. "Finally left the house, huh?"

"Yeah." Otabek remembers to move. He sets down the coffees to unlace his shoes. "Finally unstuck yourself from the couch?"

"Fuck you," Yuri says without any bite. Then he sniffs. "Flexibility doesn't maintain itself, you know."

"And you don't want Lilia to murder you when you get home, I imagine." Otabek puts his shoes aside.

"She wouldn't _murder_ me," Yuri says, his lips turning down in a habitual, stubborn scowl. "She would _eviscerate_ me, probably with the jelly knife she uses for her scones." Yuri says this with a begrudging sort of respect. "Not that I'm scared of her or anything."

"I wouldn't have even considered the possibility," Otabek says solemnly, and he steps closer to Yuri, holding out the coffee, angling it so Yuri can see his drawing.

Yuri's eyes light up, and he pulls away from the wall, leg dropping lightly to the floor. Otabek is one part jealous and twenty parts in awe of the way Yuri can make his body move. "Is that a cat?"

It is a cat. It's a crudely drawn cat, the kind small children doodle, with two triangular ears and a wavy tail and wide-sprouting whiskers, but for all that, it's undeniably a cat. "Yes," says Otabek gravely, "because this is a cat-paw-ccino."

The sound Yuri makes is both tragic and amazing, like he's choked on air. His expression is equally good, a combination of deep incredulity that he had to hear such a terrible joke (and it's awful, Otabek is very proud of it), while simultaneously being nonplussed because it's about a _cat_ , and to speak badly about anything cat-related is sacrilegious. Otabek watches with amusement as Yuri's brain short-circuits until he finally defaults over into irritation.

"Give me that," Yuri snaps, snatching the cup and stalking away.

Otabek follows him into the kitchen, enjoying the sense of Yuri being comfortable and cross in his home, and sits at his small dining table. The room is little more than an inlet from the living area, decorated in bold blues and earthy browns that Otabek finds soothing, but it has a sturdy table and two chairs to sit in so they can act like proper adult people. His shower will have to wait until he finishes his own coffee. There's no point in letting it go cold.

Yuri has returned to his phone and is pretending Otabek isn't there, his pretty lips pressed in a sulky line that Otabek wants to smooth over with his thumb.

"So?" Otabek asks after a bit of silence and several sips of coffee. "Anything interesting?"

Yuri glares at him briefly, but a moment later relents, too eager and amused not to share. "My fans are going apeshit. Again."

This is not surprising. Yuri's fans, as a mass entity, are uninhibited at best. Since his friendship with Yuri began, Otabek has received disturbing tweets from the more zealous ones, like _What does the nape of Yurotchka's neck smell like?_ and _Can you bottle up Yurotchka's sweat for me?_ Sometimes he screencaps them and sends them to Yuri just to see what sorts of creative curses Yuri will come up with.

"What is it now?" He hasn't been online today, or yesterday, for that matter. Anything could be happening in the great wide world of the internet. "Do I have to defend your honor?"

Yuri snorts indelicately, but it also gets a tiny smile out of him. "I haven't posted anything since I left Russia, that's what. You'd think I died. You should see some of these fucking rumors they're spreading. I have a fatal disease, I got caught in a gang fight—like I'd ruin my fucking body that way—" Yuri makes an irritated sound with his tongue, "—someone kidnapped me." He levels his gaze over the top of his phone. His eyes are green like the light pouring through a glass bottle. A sly smirk pulls at one corner of his mouth.

"That was one time," Otabek protests mildly. "And I didn't actually kidnap you. You're never going to let it go, are you?"

"Nope," Yuri says, sounding satisfied.

Otabek sighs, defeated. "Oh, well." He'd do it again anyway.

There's a window here, a moment where he could ask Yuri why he's gone quiet on social media, why he doesn't want anyone to know where he is. Putting aside the public sphere of the world wide web, Otabek is reasonably sure Yuri's gotten texts from Viktor and the rest, and been texting back even, but Yuri hasn't talked about it, and when his grandfather had called he'd slipped out onto the balcony for a private conversation, then come in five minutes later looking like he wanted to strangle something. He could ask. Maybe Yuri would even answer. But Otabek lets the moment slip by.

"Yura," he says instead, "have you ever heard of Schrödinger's baby?"

"Huh?" Yuri pulls his eyes away from his phone again and blinks at the topic change. "Don't you mean Schrödinger's—" He stops, and looks at Otabek more narrowly. "Is this another cat pun?"

"No Yura, it's a baby," Otabek insists. "At least I think it's a baby. There's a woman in the park every time I run, pushing a stroller. But is there a baby in the stroller? I've never seen the baby." He considers this as Yuri stares at him, vaguely horrified. "This is very important."

Yuri looks like he can't believe they're having this conversation. "Why do you care about a fucking baby?"

"Because it could be anything," Otabek says. "Maybe it's not a baby."

"Beka—"

"Maybe it _is_ a cat," Otabek goes on.

Yuri's expression has gone a little manic, like he knows where Otabek is going with this but also knows there's no stopping this train, it is _definitely_ crashing. He's holding his phone very tightly and Otabek hopes he isn't about to throw it. If Yuri does, he'll duck and hope for the best.

"But _how would I know_?"

There's a moment of silence.

Then Yuri covers his face, pressing his fingers into his eye sockets, and groans. "I fucking swear, Otabek." He droops forward, completely giving up, his forehead thunking to the tabletop. "I hate you." Thankfully, his phone just gets dropped and clatters near his hand.

"You don't." Otabek smiles into his last sip of coffee. "At least it wasn't a pun," he says, pleased with himself.

Yuri snorts, shoulders shuddering. And then he snorts again, makes a choking sound, and Otabek realizes he's laughing. It grows into gasping giggles, wild-edged, and he wraps his arms around his head as if to hold onto himself, fingers grasping hard at his elbows, pushing his face into his bicep as he shakes.

This laughter is different than Yuri's bright cackle or his derisive _ha!_ It's an untamed thing, a release of tension, awkward and faltering and breathless. And it's the first time Yuri's laughed since he showed up on Otabek's doorstep. Otabek wonders if Yuri realizes that.

"Not a pun," Yuri manages between convulsive gulps for air. "Fuck, that wasn't even funny. Ow, my abs."

"You're welcome," Otabek says.

"Fuck you," Yuri says again, gasping now as the wildness ebbs away, his hard edges softened with laugh fatigue. He remains wilted on the table. "Ugh."

Otabek taps the tabletop to gather his attention. "I'm going out tonight. Do you want to come?"

Yuri inhales a lungful of air and hauls himself upright in his chair, squinting with put upon suspicion, like he expects another joke to attack him. His face is red and his hair sticks to his cheek and he's impossible to look away from. "Out? Where?"

Yuri hasn't left the apartment, not even to skate, although Otabek hasn't failed to notice Yuri's skates by his luggage. Or rather, the soft casing that Yuri packs his skates in for travel. It's probably more habit than anything for Yuri to bring them, the same as it is for Otabek. But he's not sure why Yuri's been avoiding the rink.

"I _do_ do things outside of my house, you know. I'm DJing tonight."

Yuri's eyes light up with tentative hope. "Yeah? I never really got to hear you play in Barcelona." Neither of them mentions it had been because Yuri interrupted his set by climbing up on the decks, then hijacked him for a heart-to-heart followed by a long night of choreography. Some things are better left unsaid. And besides, it's one of Otabek's favorite memories. Yuri brushes his hair away from his cheek and tucks it behind his ear. "I could dance, I guess."

Otabek nods, counting this as another quiet win. "You can meet my friends."

Yuri looks startled for a moment. "Oh." The color has mostly left his cheeks, but they still have a light flush of pink. He settles his chin on his fist and spins his phone around on the table with his fingertip, mouth curling back into a pensive frown. "How many friends?"

"Three?"

The phone makes a hollow sound against the wood as it goes around and around, Yuri watching it. He might not be ready for other people yet, Otabek realizes. At least, not ones that aren't going to be nameless faces in a crowd, bodies and energy more than personalities.

Otabek gives him space for his thoughts. It takes a few more seconds before he looks up at Otabek, decided. "Okay. I'll go. But first, we're gonna go shopping. And Beka." He picks up his cappuccino and angles it pointedly across the table before taking a sip, his fingers covering Otabek's scrawled marker. "Next time, get me a mocha."


End file.
